


junk of the hearts

by Aquaphobe



Category: South Park
Genre: Angry Kissing, Angry Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Dumb Mistakes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Eric Cartman Being An Asshole, Eventual Smut, Feels, First Time, Fist Fights, High School Drama, Kenny Being a Perv, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 04:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13450779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquaphobe/pseuds/Aquaphobe
Summary: Cartman stepped closer. The malicious sneer that lit up his face reminded Kyle of a snarling dog."I want to see you break, Kyle. I want to see you suffer. I always have."The redhead decided it wasn't easy to close his eyes on the truth, once they'd been forced open.





	1. these feelings belong in a zoo

**Author's Note:**

> oh, god, it's been years since I started writing this fic – upwards of 5 – and it remains my first (and most shabby) foray into the world of fanfiction writing. it's largely unfinished, unplanned, overdramatic and very rough around the edges. that said, I'm going to give this hunk of junk another – final – shot.
> 
> there are likely to be huge changes in the writing and the plot, so whether you've read the story before or are just reading it for the first time now, I'd recommend starting from the beginning. otherwise, you might get a little lost here and there.
> 
> i hope you all enjoy the ride :))

Okay, so here was the thing: Kyle liked to think he was a pretty smart guy. He'd always had high enough grades to please his bitch of a mom, a tongue so sharp he'd been able verbally parry with even the shittiest of people, and a keen sense of self preservation. (The last of which was proven by the fact that somehow he'd survived to the age of seventeen, largely unharmed, in a place as undeniably fucked up as South Park.)

Unfortunately, none of those sorts of smarts seemed to translate to the parts of Kyle's brain that were governed by emotions. He'd always been kind of screwed over when it came to differentiating his head from his heart, and sure enough, that extended to the world of love.

At the tender age of thirteen, smart, snarky, street-wise Kyle Broflovski had looked at his best friend over his big mac and, relish sauce dripping down his fingers, had had a pretty fucked up realisation: he was in love wish Stan Marsh.

As in totally, mind-blowingly head-over-heels and arse-over-tits for his very clearly straight (even at that age) best friend.

How did a thirteen year old know what he was feeling was love, you might ask? Well, as previously stated, Kyle was a smart kid from the get-go. And, as honest with himself as he always tried to be, he wasn't about to ignore the facts. There were only so many things that popping a boner while sitting across from your best friend in a greasy MacDonalds, (and getting lost in his very dreamy blue eyes), could mean.

To say it was the last time he sprang one while around (or otherwise thinking of) Stan would be a downright lie. In fact, it became kind of a regular occurrence from then on. (As did the 'getting lost in his eyes' part, though he was far less likely to admit that, even in the privacy of his own head.)

It wasn't like it was only embarrassing bodily functions that triggered this realisation, either.

Kyle wasn't a patient guy, but he put up with more of Stan's shit than anyone in their right mind ever would. Every dumb adventure when they should be studying for midterms, every bitchy complaint about animal cruelty, every pointless argument over thoughtless, fly away comments… all of it was endured with rolled eyes and a begrudging smile in the face Stan's goofy apologies.

For another thing, Kyle had always been possessive of Stan in a way that he wasn't with anyone else, spending almost all of his free time with the other boy. He actually got kinda pissy whenever anyone else monopolised Stan's attention, too. Especially if that 'anyone' was named Wendy Testaburger. (To say that Kyle and Stan's long-time, on-and-off girlfriend didn't always see eye-to-eye would be kind of an understatement.)

But the point of it was, at the age of thirteen he started seeing Stan Marsh differently to how he ever had before, and the results were… awkward. Humiliating. Mostly though, they were hard to deal with, considering how clearly one-sided his affections were.

Any time Stan turned a pale, sickly green around Wendy, Kyle wanted to punch something.

Any time he woke from a dream, or was shaken from a reverie (involving him and Stan in various states of undress) in Debates class, he had the fight down the flush of mortification and the hollow pang of longing in his gut.

Any time Stan and Kenny got talking about the girls they wanted to bang, Kyle did his best to tune it out – to duck away before they could try to involve him.

It was worst on the nights when he crashed at Stan's, and instead of going to the latest party, his best friend begged that they just stayed there. That he didn't want to hang out with any of the assholes from school. And so they'd brush off their friends with some lame excuse, and they'd stay up late watching Terrance and Phillip reruns and stuffing their faces with popcorn. Just the two of them. It would be absolutely perfect.

Well, until something came along and burst Kyle's bubble.

Even just the brush of Stan's arm against his as he reached over him for the remote, or their knees knocking together as one of them shifted in their seats, would set Kyle's nerves alight. One brief glance over at Stan, though, always managed to douse those nerves like a glass of stale, tepid water poured onto a lit match. Stan's lack of a reaction – his utter obliviousness to their contact, their proximity, his gay best friend's  _feelings_  for him – hurt in a way that nothing else did.

Whoever said that love was easy, or nice, or  _cherishable_  was clearly an uneducated fuckwit that had never experienced the one-sided variety. It was  _miserable_ , and it didn't help to even entertain the possibility that this was something Kyle might be able to get over. How could he, when Stan was everywhere he went? When his friend smiled his bright-toothed smile and laughed his awkward, throaty laugh? When he always said just the right (dumb) thing to pull Kyle out of his funk, without even realising that he was the cause? It was impossible.

And so it was that Kyle – smart, honest Kyle – started lying to himself.

_He's not even that good looking_ , he'd tell himself as they tossed around a basketball in the court near the park, the summer sun beating down on them until Stan's t-shirt clung to his lean stomach and broad shoulders in a way that made Kyle's mouth go dry.

_It sucks to be stuck doing the same old crap over and over_ , he'd repeat to himself as their fingers hammered down on the controls, and the sound of the Guitar Hero virtual crowd cheered to 'Carry On My Wayward Son'.

_I'd never be attracted someone who didn't take school seriously_ , he'd think sheepishly as they skipped classes to go watch the latest Adam Sandler movie in the cinema.

_I'm not in love with him_ , he'd insist as they drove around in Stan's brand new car, going nowhere in particular and just sitting in companionable silence. He'd think it as Stan's fingers tapped against the steering wheel and Kyle breathed in the faint, cool scent of the aftershave Wendy'd bought his best friend for Christmas.

Kyle knew that all these things sounded really fucking gay, even to his own ears, but it was hard pretending he didn't spend the majority of his time obsessing over his best friend.

The cold, hard truth was that when he was with Stan, nothing else mattered. It was mortifying, but that didn't make it any less legitimate. (No matter  _how_  much he tried to convince himself.)

In all honesty, he was surprised that he hadn't been called out on his feelings by anyone yet – subtlety wasn't exactly Kyle's forte. But then, Stan lived in his own little bubble of denial too. If he didn't want to see something –  _really_  didn't want to see it – then not even his own common sense (something Stan had more of than most people in South Park, questionable though that statement was) would clear his vision.

In the end though, it all came down to the fact that no matter what Kyle told himself, or how much Stan wilfully ignored his best friend's blatant pining, Kyle was still majorly screwed. As in, so screwed there was no chance that he was gonna recover anytime soon.

This fact was made abundantly clear when Stan and Wendy had gotten back together at the beginning of eleventh grade. They still spent more time together than they did apart, and Stan never once bailed on him when they'd arranged to do something together, but the fact remained that Kyle really didn't want to hear about how great Wendy's tits, or her ass, or her lips were.

The day that Stan, blushing red as the rim of his hat, had told him that he and Wendy had finally done the dirty, some hopelessly optimistic part of Kyle had shrivelled up and died. He'd wanted to punch Stan's bitch of a girlfriend in her stupid fucking face; he'd wanted to curl up and cry. He'd wanted to, but he hadn't. Instead, he'd just smiled an unbelievably stiff smile and had clapped a blushing, grinning Stan on the back.

(He was only grateful that Stan was too embarrassed to go into the real details about the event, because that was the last thing he wanted to hear.)

Half an hour after Stan's proud admission of getting laid, Kyle had made some half-assed excuse about getting a text from his mom, wanting him home for dinner, and had left. The short trek back through the snow had made his eyes sting and his tightly fisted hands ache worse than usual. When he'd gotten home, he'd walked up to his room, sat at his desk and tried to drown himself in algebraic equations. It wasn't nearly as melodramatic as shrieking at Stan until his throat was raw or pummelling Wendy into raspberry jelly, but (he had tried to remind himself) he  _wasn't_  that sort of person. He was fucking smart. And dignified. And he wasn't in love with an oblivious asshole of a best friend, so what the hell did it matter that Stan and his loud-mouthed girlfriend had screwed?

It wasn't the end of the world. He'd eventually gotten ahold of himself again, and when he had, things seemed to fall back into a state of relative normalcy. Well, aside from the fact that his Stan-centric universe now expanded to fit Wendy, too. It was shitty, yes, but he got by, gritting his teeth and rolling his eyes like always.

So he continued to keep all this to himself. And late at night, when he was by himself and feeling like someone had carved out his chest cavity with a rusted spoon, he'd stop lying to himself. He was in love, and it sucked balls. But… it was tolerable. It had to be. He kind of had no choice in that.

Well, right up until one morning after winter break, twelfth grade, when he was woken up by a hand shaking his shoulder, a pair dreamy blue eyes, and a smile bright enough to leave sunspots on his vision.

Stan Marsh leaned over his best friend, clothes skewed like he'd dressed in a rush and warm fingers pressing into Kyle's bare skin.

"Kyle, dude, she said yes!"


	2. ran to ground for a while there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone showing an interest in this story - i hope you enjoy this update :))

Kyle stirred briefly at the sound of feet stomping up the stairs. Tried to ignore the click and  _crash_ of his door being thrown open and rebounding off the wall.

For a moment there was a blessed breath of quiet. Willing to take anything he could get, he stretch, eyes still closed. As his body clock rather unhappily informed him that it was  _the asscrack of dawn_ , he figured it must've just been Ike barging in to borrow his basketball.

Wishful thinking.

The metallic rasp of curtains being torn open preluded to an ungodly bright light shining straight across his face.

"Ugh…" Kyle groaned and, eyes scrunched up, rolled over to try and bury himself under his pillow. Death by suffocation was preferable to being subjected to this kind of wake up call.

Before he could make any real progress, however, the bed dipped on either side of his shoulders and a hand gripped him, shaking firmly. The familiar tang of cool aftershave and peppermint shampoo he'd come to associate with Stan washed over him. Had any of his other friends barged into his room to wake him up, he would have decked them, rolled over and gone back to sleep. Luckily, Stan wasn't just anyone.

He still received a weak, half-hearted smack to the shoulder, though.

"Jesus, Stan… what the fuck?" Tired green eyes squinted up at the intruder; upon seeing just how close Stan's face was to his, Kyle's heart performed its usual flopping palpitations. It was hard not to notice the flush cast across Stan's cheeks, or the heaving of his chest that suggested he'd run there.

Kyle's sleep addled mind could only really make the connection between Stan, Bed, Blush, Close, and he shifted against the mattress, stuck somewhere between  _horny_  and  _confused._

"Kyle, dude, she said yes!"

Kyle blinked. Scrubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Stan's grin widened at his friend's baffled expression.

The heart palpitations slowed. He shoved at Stan's chest with one hand, suddenly needing space. The dark haired boy took an easy step back, and Kyle pulled himself upright against the headboard. "What? What're you talking about?"

Stan looked down at his feet, grin softening into goofy smile. "I… know it's lame, and don't tease me or anything but I… kinda maybe asked her if... y'know. I mean, I wasn't planning to ask her until after college or anything, but then last night we were together and, yeah," he rubbed at the back of his head, blush intensifying, "it just sort of felt like the right time."

Kyle could feel the blood draining out of his face. His fingers curled into the blanket. He swallowed hard. "Whoa, slow down. What... what'd you ask her?"

He was certain that he didn't want to hear whatever this was; morbid curiosity kept him pinned there, eyes wide and throat aching.

"I asked her to marry me."

Nothing.

For a long moment, there was nothing.

And then that moment was over, and reality crashed into him like a UFO into the South Park Mall.

His stomach lurched – his eyes stung.

All he could do was shove Stan out of the way, stagger to his feet, and rush out the door towards the bathroom.

...

Kyle stared blankly at his reflection in the glass of the bus window. It stared right back at him.

His eyes were heavy lidded and badly bruised in the corners, like he'd gone two rounds in the ring before breakfast, and his lips were red raw where he'd been chewing on them all night.

_Fuck Mondays_ , he thought with a surprising lack of venom. They always came around too soon.

Kyle sighed and passed a hand over his face, refocusing on the moving landscape beyond his zombified reflection. White lawns, white rooftops, white hills, white sky.  _White, white, white._  Goddamn, South Park was boring to look at. It didn't help that this was the only view they got almost all year round.

His thoughts were cut off when the person who'd sat down beside him after the last stop knocked into him with their arm. With what felt like colossal effort, Kyle tore his aching eyes away from bus window and turned slightly in his seat.

All to be met with wildly gesticulating hands and the back of a head. Or, more accurately, the back of a hood.

The occupant of said hood was apparently engaging in a deep and meaningful conversation with the person directly across the aisle. Tuning in, Kyle caught what sounded suspiciously like, "...The most rocking hot tits, dude. Had to be at  _least_  a G cup."

And then, "Oh, really? Gee whiz, well that's... That's mighty fine, I guess."

Kenny and Butters. How the fuck hadn't he realised it was them when they got on?

Actually, when  _was_  the last time he'd seen them – at all?

He thought back over the last few weeks, but everything was a blur, like usual. School seemed to have gone in and out of focus, and the faces that went by seemed to swim just out of sight, as if he'd only really spared them a brief glance. As always, all of his attention had been on—

Had been—

He swallowed, hard, around the lump in his throat. Oh, God, he couldn't. He couldn't think about that right now.

He didn't think he would be able to stay in one piece.

His shoulders pulled up and he quickly spun back around to the window.

Kyle tried his best to steady his breathing and blink back the traitorous sting of tears.

_"Kyle, dude, she said yes!"_

He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the voice away, but it just kept on replaying, like some sort of sick funeral march.

_"...She said yes!"_

He was insane, he had to be. There was no other explanation for his fucking stupidity. How could this have possibly surprised him? It was clear as day that Stan, at the very least, was stupidly caught up in his girlfriend. The fact that Wendy – brazenly left wing, hardcore feminist  _Wendy_  – was willing to set aside her bright future for an engagement to her highschool sweetheart (and didn't that terminology just make him want to gag?), was baffling. The only way to justify the sudden engagement was that they were both (idiots) serious about it. And anyway, you'd have to be blind to miss all the longing stares and lingering touches.

But then, he supposed that he  _had_  been blind. He'd spent so much of the last few years outright lying to himself about his relationship with Stan – his  _feelings_  for Stan – that he hadn't even realised what was going on in real life. It wasn't Stan and Kyle, super best friends against the world. It was Stan and  _Wendy_.

" _...Dude, she said yes!"_

It always had been.

"Jesus, Ky, you alright?"

The redhead jolted back out of his thoughts and, fingers knotted in the hem of his jacket, peered over his hunched shoulders.

A pair of pale blue eyes stared back at him from below scruffy, straw-blond bangs and the fluffy rim of his hood. Although the expression on Kenny's face was obscured, it was still easy to make out the crease in his brow.

Kyle took a little while (longer than might be considered healthy) to process his friend's words. When they finally registered, he just gave a jerky shrug. "I'm fine, Kenny." His voice came out rougher than he'd intended – he cleared his throat.

"You look like horse shit," was the concerned reply.

"Thanks, dude. Really what I needed to hear." Kyle scowled, unable to hold his friend's gaze any longer and unwilling to chat.

"That's what I'm here for," Kenny said, spreading out his hands and tilting his face up like he was some magnanimous god, "to tell my friends when they're looking like total ass. C'mon, what's wrong?" Perceptive though Kenny might like to be, compassion was definitely not his forte.

"I'm fine."

"Huh. You don't look it."

"Y'know, he's right Kyle," Butters piped up, his round blond face poking into existence just over Kenny's shoulder. "Are you sure you're feelin' alright? You look awful pale." Kyle could practically hear Butters' knuckles grinding together.

"It's nothing." Why was it so damn hard to get people to leave him to his self-pity?

"Well, if you need to talk, we're here for you, little buddy—"

"I said I'm  _fine_." He'd practically snarled. A brief, ruddy flush flooded his cheeks as Butters stepped back from him, looking shocked.

"Alright, dude. That's cool. No pressure." Kenny held up his hands as if to say,  _'Whoa, calm down there.'_

Kyle watched with narrowed eyes as both of the other boys backed off, Butters retreating to his own seat (where he was  _supposed_  to be, goddamnit, and Kyle shouldn't have to feel  _guilty_  for snapping), and Kenny having the courtesy to turn around and leave Kyle alone.

The stupid lump in his throat climbed just a little higher and, gulping, he sank deeper into his seat.

For the rest of the bus ride, the seventeen year old stared out of the bus window at the passing scenery, trying his hardest to keep all the memories of the morning before out of his mind.

...

When the bus pulled up in the parking lot of South Park High he reached down for his rucksack, slung it over one shoulder and slouched off towards the main school building.

The bus always arrived ten minutes early and so Kyle made a quick visit to his locker for his textbooks before heading to homeroom, to save him more time before next class. Once done, he slipped into the classroom and sank silently into his seat, eyes downcast and arms folded on top of the desk.

A few minutes later, other people started filing in. By the time that Kenny slouched down at the desk beside Kyle, Bebe Stevens and Heidi Turner had already flanked the redhead. Kyle thanked God for this brief reprieve, as Kenny's fickle attention was diverted to the girls. As usual, Kyle's blond friend put on the charm. And by charm, he meant Kenny waggling his eyebrows suggestively and saying things like, "Bebe, y'know what? I'd like to use your thighs as earmuffs," and "Heidi, babe, do you wash your panties with Windex? Because I can really see myself in them."

When Bebe began returning the dirty pickup lines with surprisingly detailed death threats, Kyle buried his head in his arms, grateful that their escalating confrontation blocked out the sound of everyone else coming into the room.

The bell rang, and Mr Garrison arrived bang on time, bursting through the door in a raging fury (like most Monday mornings). His greeting was, "Sit down and shut the fuck up, you little bastards! Kenny, get your hands out of your pants. Bill, Fosse, if you boys try just  _one more time_  to flip Red's skirt, I  _swear to God_ , I will hand your asses to the principal. You boys disgust me, only ever thinking with your dicks!"

Despite Mr Garrison's impressive entrance and his following rant, the morning announcements were as bland as ever. Kyle wasn't sure exactly how the school system operated, but somehow Mr Garrison, who'd had a job transfer to South Park High around five years ago, had once again become their homeroom teacher. He didn't know what the chances of that were, but he figured that they were pretty slim. As was evident by the continued swearing of their long-time teacher and the utterances of relief as homeroom came to a (painfully slow) close, no one was particularly happy with this arrangement. Mr Garrison was an asshat. ( _But then_ , Kyle thought with a small curl of his upper lip as two tables along, Fosse reached forward and pinged Red's bra strap,  _so're most of my classmates_.)

As everyone started standing up and milling between the desks, Kyle gathered his text books into his arms, scrambled to his feet and practically bolted past Stan's desk. It wasn't that he was avoiding his best friend, it was just that he didn't want to be anywhere fucking  _near_  him.

After escaping homeroom unscathed (and putting a reasonable distance between himself and the rest of the class) he made his way towards the Chemistry lab. For most subjects, the classrooms were unlocked in the mornings so that the students could enter when they arrived and get their books and notepads ready, but this wasn't the case with the science rooms. The door remained locked until second bell rang. Lots of people thought Mr Vanders was a paranoid junkie, but Kyle could hardly blame the guy. Who wanted a bunch of South Park teens around a load of potentially volatile chemicals for any longer than was necessary? Considering the amount of times he and his year mates had blown up the elementary school with nothing more than a filched lighter and a series of well aimed farts back in the day (and what were the logistics of that?), he could hardly blame the guy. Not like the school getting burnt to the ground would have put much of a damper on his mood – in fact, it might have given him something to smile about.

To pass the time until the bell rang again, Kyle stared vacantly at the locker opposite him and contemplated the angsty misery that was his life. All he could say was that he was grateful for the fact that none of his close friends shared first period with him on Mondays. From what he knew, Stan was in Shop class along with Craig, Clyde and Cartman, while Kenny, Butters and Jimmy had Drama.

Eventually, after the rest of his class had showed up, the lock on the door clicked and Mr Vanders poked his head out just far enough to yell, "First class, get in—  _now_ , you little shits!"

The students shared baleful glances and trailed inside.

Kyle sat down at his group table towards the back of the room and opened his textbook to the page number already up on the board. Sally Turner and Annie Faulk sat down to his right, with Kevin Stoley and Leroy Jenkins to his left. Kyle didn't offer them so much as a glance, and they extended him the same courtesy.

Monday morning was always a pathetic affair in South Park High, as both teachers and students suffered the aftereffects of weekend partying and dragged themselves back into the debilitating dullness of school routine.

As it was, all Mr Vanders could get from his students were grunts of affirmatives for roll call and half assed excuses as to why around ninety percent of the class had yet to hand in their Chemistry homework. Pissed off as always by his students' general uselessness, Mr Vanders cancelled the class practical and instead assigned them a buttload of complex theory. This punishment, generally considered dickheaded, was met by a round of groans and complaints. Mr Vanders just cussed them out until the class fell into a reasonably compliant state.

During all of this, Kyle flipped his pen over and over in his hand, more than happy to tune out the routine complaints. Beside, he hated Chemistry theory. The explanations were too long, the problems stupidly convoluted and the subject just generally too dry to interest Kyle on a good day.  _Let alone_  when he'd spent the previous night tossing, turning, and trying to convince himself that  _he didn't give a fuck_  about Stan proposing to Wendy. Jesus Christ.

He supposed the tiredness explained his mood. After the way he'd snapped at Kenny and Butters on the bus earlier, Kyle had sunk into a comforting numbness. His throat still ached whenever his thoughts strayed too close to  _that_ , but otherwise a mental fog had descended on him, making it easy to ignore that he'd been upset about anything in particular at all.

He wasn't asked to do any group work or to pair off for the lesson, so he supposed he was grateful for the chance to keep his head down. As Kenny had so kindly pointed out, he looked like crap. (He was pretty sure that somewhere under the haze, he felt it too.)

After Chemistry he had Math. Again, the class passed with minimal human contact; by third period, he was enjoying throbbing temples and an easy, lulling boredom.

Spanish was less pleasant, considering the fact that he was expected to actually speak with the girl next to him. Lola was alright, he guessed, though she never actually shut up and she kept playing with her bangs. He was honestly surprised that she didn't strain a wrist from constantly flipping her hair back over her shoulders.

Straight after Spanish was lunch.

Monday lunch break was always a heated affair, featuring the hottest gossip, with replays of who'd ended up drunk and screwing at some party, or how so-and-so was arrested for hotwiring Barbrady's car.

Kyle had a sinking feeling he knew what the gossip would be, and didn't even make it all the way to his usual lunch table before his suspicions were confirmed.

He was halfway across the cafeteria, lunch tray in hand, when he looked up. His steps faltered.

It wasn't just the usual crowd gathered around. Craig's gang had crammed themselves onto the table next to them, and Wendy and her girlfriends swarmed around the group of boys like high-pitched, overly dolled-up flies.

For a long, drawn out moment Kyle just stood and watched. His view of Stan was partially blocked thanks to Wendy's ridiculous pink beret (and the fact she was latched onto him like a leech), but he caught a blinding flash of teeth and heard a warm, familiar laugh over the noisy chatter.

The lump in his throat reappeared, apparently trying to choke him.

Despite the sleepy fog he'd drifted into during morning classes, he just couldn't face Stan (or his parasitic, overly opinionated girlfriend) right now.

"Hey, ass hat, you're in my way!"

Kyle startled and looked around to see a younger student glowering up at him. On any other day might have told the kid to go fuck himself; today, he snatched up the chance to bail on the lunch crowd.

He turned, rammed the kid out of the way with a shoulder, and shoved his tray, (untouched pizza and fries) into the rack. The redhead didn't spare his friends another glance.

If he had, he would have seen a pair of dark brown eyes following him out.

...

Kyle wandered through the hallways aimlessly.

He had Phys Ed next so he might as well head towards the locker room, but...

Stan would be there. All the guys knew now too, which meant Stan'd be open game for all the usual mocking. They wouldn't shut up about this for as long as possible. They'd expect Kyle to join in.  _Stan_  would expect it.

He'd been dreading that since the moment Stan had told him yesterday.

The fog lifted, and his eyes stung.

" _Kyle, dude, she said yes!"_

And Jesus fucking Christ, those words hurt. There was no use lying to himself about that.

He took a short, sudden breath.

" _...I asked her to marry me."_

And then another.

" _...She said yes!"_

And another.

" _...It just sort of seemed like the right time._ "

No use. All he could do was gasp uselessly at the air like a fish on dry land, fingers clutching at his heaving ribs.

His vision had blurred. Tears spilt over the edges, tracing warm, wet tracks down over his cheeks.

He laughed; choked a sobbing, gasping breath around the lump in his throat.

The sound echoed loudly in the empty corridor.

…

Ten minutes later, puffy eyed, wet faced and badly shaken, Kyle stumbled into the nurse's office and asked to be sent home.

She wasn't hard to convince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think?


End file.
